


Sunday Worship

by kuriadalmatia



Category: X-Men (Movies), X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: Aftermath, Blow Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Mutants, Pre-X-Men (2000), Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-03-10
Updated: 2004-03-10
Packaged: 2018-02-06 07:51:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1850209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuriadalmatia/pseuds/kuriadalmatia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bobby returns after visiting his parents all out of sorts and needs comfort.</p>
<p>This is set in the FDoE universe but is not part of the arc.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sunday Worship

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: Marvel owns the X-Men, 20th Century Fox owns the movie. Salut! I just took them out to play and I promise put them back when I'm done. I'm not making any profit just trying to get these images out of my head.
> 
> COMMENTS: Not beta-ed and my lovely betas will roast me on this one:>

St. John heard the bedroom door open and shut quietly and then the sharp click of the lock being turned. He cracked open an eyelid and watched as his roommate picked up the chair and placed it under the doorknob. He glanced over at the clock at noted it was 9:43 a.m., damn-assed early on a Sunday morning on a Holiday weekend.

 

He wasn't awake enough to process why Bobby was back at the Mansion so damned early. After all, Summers had specifically asked St. John last night if he could pick up Bobby from the train station today after supper. He had readily accepted, because it was a chance to get out and perhaps some quality time in the back seat of whatever vehicle Summers would deign him to use. For whatever reason (and St. John never asked), Bobby always seemed to be more, ah, eager after returning from visiting the parents.

 

The room was intentionally dark; St. John had draped the dark blue thermal blanket from Bobby's bed over the curtain rod to block out the morning sun. It was the curse of having a room that faced east. Still, enough light seeped through for him to see beyond just the outline and to see some detail.

 

St. John rolled to his side, adjusting his usual morning erection, and watched as Bobby dropped his duffle bag on to the bed. He watched as the suit jacket was shrugged off and dropped to the floor.

 

Different. Bobby was always anal as hell about Sunday clothes. Suddenly, everything about the way Bobby carried himself set off the little alarms in St. John's mind.

 

Slouched. Motions slow. Actions deliberate. Toeing off sneakers (shouldn't those be that stupid pair of retro-penny loafers?). Pulling off the tie, button-down shirt, and Dockers until down to just boxers. Back of the hand wiping under the nose. An abbreviated snuffle that sounded like a snort from an early winter cold. An unmistakable chill permeating the room. An effort to be quiet and then the realization, it seemed, that it was pointless because St. John was a hyper-vigilant sleeper when alone.

 

Bobby shuffled over to him and stood at the edge of the bed, looking down. "Johnny?" spoken oh so softly, with an odd edge to it that St. John really didn't want to think about now. 

 

It was asking without asking, calling in the mark for those nights when Bobby had gotten St. John through nightmares. It was invoking those unspoken rules by the simple use of a nickname. It was a request that couldn't be turned down.

 

St. John scooted over, flipping the covers up and adjusting the pillows so they could share. Bobby crawled in, his skin that nervous-upset temperature, and shifted a few times before awkwardly coming to rest on his side and facing St. John. His eyes were closed and face tilted away. Embarrassed, perhaps, and maybe even humiliated to call in a favor.

 

Carefully, tentatively almost and that was weird because they were never particularly shy about things now, St. John stroked the inside of Bobby's arm. Permission, he guessed, for whatever Bobby needed. Almost immediately, cold fingers began tracing his skin, stroking and petting in that peculiar habit that Bobby had when he was emotionally spazzing.

 

St. John opened his mouth to comment – the mood shifts and the physicality way too fast even for their overwhelming teenage urges especially on a Sunday morning – but cool lips silenced him. The Listerine-flavored kiss was awkwardly aggressive, one moment demanding the next faltering as if Bobby couldn't make up his mind. Maybe St. John's morning breath was fouler than expected. He blamed Pete not having the Stoli cold enough last night for that.

 

Bobby's hand skimmed down his side, then to the waistband of his shorts. There was a pause long enough to be considered asking consent and St. John managed to break away from the kiss. 

 

Wrong thing to do.

 

Bobby immediately recoiled as if he had been physically struck.

 

"Gotta take a piss," he explained and waited for Bobby to nod. They had been through this before, discovering the necessity of taking care of certain bodily functions first, and slow acknowledgement from Bobby hopefully meant he understood it wasn't a rejection, merely a pause. St. John clambered out of bed and grabbed his kit since fresh breath was only fair and prep for cleanup afterwards was only logical. 

 

It took him a few minutes simply because it was only polite to wash up. When he came back into the room, he locked the door and placed the chair back under the doorknob. It was a comfort thing for Bobby, not that such a measure was exactly a deterrent in a Mansion of mutants. St. John tossed his kit on the dresser, shed his robe, and got back into bed. He'd left his shorts on because he had no idea what the hell kind of mood Bobby was in or what he was gearing up for.

 

Bobby rolled him onto his back, a lean leg tangling between his as the kisses started again. This time, Bobby was definitely aggressive and included stroking and rubbing and a little bit of grinding. On one hand, St. John didn't mind because Bobby was a decent kisser and post-parental visit dalliances with Bobby were always quite satisfying. On the other… this was _new_. 

 

Asking without asking, calling in a mark, invoking unspoken rules…. Those had never been part of _this_ particular aspect of their – ah – relationship.

 

Hands slid along his skin with familiarity that shouldn't have surprised him but stopped at the waistband of his shorts. Again, permission was sought and Bobby's hesitation and sharp inhalations translated into Bobby waiting to be rejected.

 

Oh, there were so many fucking things wrong with the scenario and St. John knew it, but a quick glance at Bobby's face revealed closed eyes, slightly flared nostrils, and that fine crease between the eyebrows as if waiting to be…. 

 

They were never vocal. Bobby was always so hyper-sensitive about being caught or what-the-fuck-ever that they kept sounds at the barest minimum. Yet there, in the locked confines of the bedroom with all the unspoken things Bobby had invoked, St. John choked out very quietly, "God please yes need…."

 

Cut off by a wholly encompassing kiss, cool fingers wrapping around his cock, and a body length pressed against him that could potentially give him frostbite.

 

To fuck with that.

 

St. John's own fingers worked the edge of the Bobby's boxers so he could cup firmly muscled ass because _goddamned_ Bobby had been blessed with an ass that would tempt any straight man and those workouts with the Fearless Leader had only further defined…. 

 

Bobby's cold fingers wrapped around his wrist and pulled it away, pressing it into the mattress. "No, please," Bobby breathed against his lips. 

 

St. John recognized the tone. A plea for understanding, to understand that Bobby needed whatever he did and _please, please, please_ don't reject him.

 

Oh sweet Jesus this was beyond anything. It was the first time ever that St. John had ever given thanks that his mutant ability required a catalyst because – oh fucking hell, Christ on a crutch and all that shit – the Mansion would have been on fire right at this fucking moment and it would have been a complete bitch to explain.

 

"Always…." choked out because of the sheer implication of the word. The kisses resumed; this time a few cold droplets splashed his cheek and there was a definite abbreviated snuffle. St. John quelled his anger.

 

By whatever gods that existed, because the Christian God and the Jewish God and the whole ideology of gods and goddesses was too fucking complicated for whatever a.m. time it was in the morning, St. John just allowed himself to go, hating his understanding of what was going yet adoring every micron of satisfaction that it was _him_ , St. John Allerdyce, that Bobby _needed_.

 

Bobby worked his way down St. John's neck and torso, licking and biting in very specific places because he did pay attention to what worked and what didn't. Even at Sunday oh-god-maybe-not-so-awful-a.m., Bobby knew how to play his body. St. John felt his shorts pulled down and Bobby settled between his legs and damn, that was kind of new because blow jobs were generally reserved for….

 

Cool hands along his inner thighs and he struggled not to let out too loud of a gasp/moan because it really did feel good but, damn, they'd forgotten to turn on the stereo for some background noise. 

 

Oh fuck, the flair of cold that made him arch and pant and moan like a slut because, goddamned it that particular trick was the most erotic sensation….

 

Cold breath, cool lips, and a _very_ warm mouth enveloped the tip of his cock.

 

"God!" St. John bit his wrist. 

 

Loud noises in their bedroom on a Sunday morning after a Holiday when Bobby technically should be still at his parents'….

 

Cool fingers wrapped around the base of his cock, the other hand steadying on his thigh. Bobby began stroking him, twisting his hand just right on the upstroke while lips and tongue worked the head of his cock.

 

Bobby was an exceptionally fast learner when it came to things like this, always generous to a fault to figure out precisely what worked and what didn't. 

 

St. John gripped the sheets in an effort not to buck up because Bobby was giving him a whole new definition of Sunday worship. His wrist was grabbed and pulled until his fingers touched Bobby's hair. Bobby always depended on him to be intuitive about things, the whole "asking without asking" notion. St. John felt the hesitation in Bobby's movements and more cool droplets hit his groin. 

 

God, he felt like a complete piece of shit because he was getting great head from a guy who paid attention to his preferences. His dick was responding just fine as he watched all of it with a weird kind of horror in realizing this was completely, utterly fucked up.

 

St. John threaded his fingers in Bobby's hair. Soft and smooth between his fingers, he realized that the hair gel Bobby had seemed addicted to at the Mansion wasn't part of the Parental Homefront.

 

Shit.

 

Fuck.

 

The room was getting colder.

 

 _Get him through this,_ his subconscious demanded.

 

He wanted to hate himself. Hate himself completely. St. John. began the quiet murmurs of "so good" and "oh fuck yes" and "needed this so badly". 

 

Bobby responded by resuming with enthusiasm, the grip around his cock oh just right and the tongue and the _every fucking thing_ so damned _right._

 

"Just like that," St. John whispered and knew he wasn't going to last long. Harder and faster, with a shot of cold here and there because it had become one of his kinks as of late. Harder and faster until he felt the tell-tale surging. "Oh fuck, Bobby… fuck yeah… gonna…."

 

He arched off the bed, knowing his grip on Bobby's hair had to be painful and he prayed he didn't rip out a chunk in process because just how in the hell could he explain it. The orgasm burned through him, making his hips jerk in response, but Bobby held onto him with such tenacity. There was something about the way Bobby swallowed, the way his tongue pressed on the underside of his cock that was as close to ecstasy as St. John had ever felt.

 

He was still panting hard when Bobby slid back up next to him. He looked at Bobby's face, saw the tell-tale tear tracks, but noted how his eyes were completely averted. St. John reached down to caress Bobby's hip, because it was only fair to return the favor. 

 

Bobby grabbed his hand. "No," came the whisper. "Go back to sleep."

 

Confused as all hell, he opened his mouth, only to have Bobby place a finger to silence him.

 

"Please," Bobby said and inhaled sharply. The ruffle of snot was unnerving as hell and proof positive of the emotional state. "Just… just go back to sleep, Johnny."

 

***** FINIS *****


End file.
